I’d been planning to write it for around 6 months, so when I sat down to work, the words fell onto the page, all 60,000 of them.

I was working part time and a full time student, so I had to fit my writing into late nights and weekends. The whole time I had this sense that I was achieving something great, that this novel will change the world.

And then I was done. And I felt… empty. After the excitement of the challenge, suddenly being left with no goal was a massive fucking disappointment.

I wasn’t expecting a sudden influx of bitches and money, but I was sure I should probably feel more proud of myself, more excited.

At 21, when your peers are out doing vastly more social and interesting things than writing a novel, it’s difficult to relate. People for the most part could not give a fuck.

I got some great feedback (the University loved it), but I could never quite get past the feeling that it was a giant piece of shit.

But I kept writing. I worked as a journalist, honing my craft like many of my literary heroes. I wrote short stories, songs, screenplays, synopses, joined writer’s groups, edited other people’s work, gave lectures, and I read and read and read.